


Fathers Here and Fathers There

by besidemethewholedamntime



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Papa Coulson, SHIELD as a family, a smidge of angst, the whole team makes a brief appearance, vague references to child abuse but nothing graphic, written for the Leo Fitz birthday exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/pseuds/besidemethewholedamntime
Summary: "And so I'm finally through."The first father leaves scars but nothing so broken that it may not be fixed by the love of a family. Fitz's relationships through the years. Canon compliant to 5x22. Written for the Fitz Birthday Exchange for @weareagentsofshield





	Fathers Here and Fathers There

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! Here is the fic for the Fitz birthday exchange! I hope you like it! I think I might have mushed your prompts together a smidge but I hope it's alright! 
> 
> This is angsty, but it does have a hopeful kind of ending that, honestly, made me feel a touch emotional when writing it. It was a challenge, I'm not going to lie, but the good kind of challenge and I enjoyed it so much! Thank you for such amazing prompts. 
> 
> Happy Fitz Birthday!

  

> _There's a stake in your fat black heart_
> 
> _And the villagers never liked you._
> 
> _They are dancing and stamping on you._
> 
> _They always knew it was you._
> 
> _Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through._
> 
> _~Sylvia Plath 'Daddy'_

 

 

Leopold James Fitz’s first father was an arsehole.

Fitz can’t quite remember the first time he was scared of his father. He knows there were good times, somehow. They’re documented on the ancient video camera his mum always whipped out when he was a baby. There he is: being bounced on his father’s knee, being rocked to sleep by his father, being taught how to kick a football, build a toy wooden aeroplane, write his name. It’s all there, in concrete evidence, that there were indeed good times with Alistair Fitz.

He doesn’t remember any of these. There are no fond memories that bring a smile to his face and threaten to make the bad ones a little more rose-tinted. The first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of his dad by blood only is his face an ugly shade of red, spittle flies from his mouth as he yells and curses and stamps and calls his son ‘ _bloody stupid wee boy who’ll never amount to anything’._ It kind of negates any bouncing on the knees or rocking to sleep.

When Alistair Fitz left, Fitz had found his mum in the kitchen, throwing out anything and everything that had once belonged to him. “No need for any of this,” she’d sing, throwing things in a black bin bag. Fitz had helped and together they had cleaned out any trace of his father from their house.

At first it was hard, to erase the man from his life. Teachers at school always tried to be sensitive around the subject but ended up making it more awkward with their ‘oh dear’s and their ‘perhaps you’d like to sit this one out’s. People in the shops would always stop him, ask him how his parents were getting along, unaware of all of the things that had happened behind closed doors. But eventually after a few years these got fewer and when he went to America nobody knew of Alistair Fitz and he told nobody and it never mattered.

Fitz knew that dads weren’t mean to give you nightmares, or make you shiver, or make it so that when you saw men with their haircut in the street you’d shrink yourself down and make yourself invisible. He knew it objectively, as a fact, but he didn’t _know_ because, well, how was he to? You can’t miss what you’ve never had, what you’ve never known. He’d never known the love of a father and, honestly, he didn’t think he was missing out.

As his granny always used to say _‘what’s fir ye won’t go past ye’_. If he was meant to have a father then he would have one, but up until this moment in his life, it’s nothing but a dream. Or a ghost in a video.

-x-

The first person he tells in America is Simmons.

He’s woken up in the middle of the night, a nightmare in his throat, her bed sheets tangled around his legs. Fitz is barely aware of the light being flicked on, of a gentle voice in his ears, a steady hand rubbing his back. He can’t even remember what it was about; just the pain and the crack of a bone and _do not start on me, boy._

He tells her, because he has to, because he’s brought his baggage into her bed, quite literally, and he owes her an explanation for the cries in the middle of the night. She listens with an understanding head tilt and the hand rubbing his back doesn’t still or stall even for a moment. When he is done, looking at her with a wince because what if he’s scared off the only friend he’s made here so far? What if his absent father is right and that he’s good for nothing and nobody?

Simmons in a perfectly calm voice, swears up and down, left and right, that Alistair Fitz better cross the street if he is ever unfortunate enough to come across her. It makes him laugh, the image of his best friend beating up his deadbeat dad. She flushes, grins, and while Fitz knows there will be more conversations later, his heart feels so much fuller of _something else_ that it’s enough.

-x-

They haven’t been on Coulson’s Bus long when May drags him aside one day.

“If you’re here, who’s flying the plane?” He jokes, but it’s shaky because he’s heard the rumours of Agent May and _The Cavalry_ and to be honest she terrifies him. She’s a bloody legend, and he’s the agent in the field who hasn’t even passed one single field assessment.

May doesn’t take him up on the joke and instead says, deadpan, “I know about your father.”

Of course, she’d know about his father. It is, after all, on his record. Nothing _about_ him. Just his name and a ‘Do Not Contact In Emergency’ stamped next to it in an alarming shade of red. Even still, as to why she’d be coming to him with this, now, after his spot on the team is confirmed makes him begin to sweat even in this over air-conditioned room.

“Wha-what about him?” He asks, going for nonchalant but it sounds far too forced and makes him cringe internally.

“I put the team together, Agent Fitz.” May looks around, lowers her voice. “Had to figure out where those broken bones came from.”

Out of an unconscious habit he rubs his right wrist that doesn’t even ache anymore. It hasn’t hurt in years, the memory is no longer clear. He told SHIELD on his admissions form that he was hurt in an accident but clearly the lie only stretches so far.

“Yeah, uh, yeah,” he mumbles, looking down at his shoes but seeing the ankle that was in a cast for six weeks. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“We have the resources,” she says quietly, not insistent exactly, but heading that way. “We could find him.”

“And why the _hell_ would I want to do that?” The words burst from him as he screws up his face. May is his superior officer, he should calm himself down, but he’s worked himself up so much he needs a release. “All he ever gave me and my mum was grief. I heard what he called her, what he called me.” His voice goes quiet. “What he used to do.” Then he raises his chin defiantly, daring May to disagree with him. “He left and for the first time everything was alright. Everything was just… it was just finally quiet.”

The look on May’s face has changed only slightly. With relief he notes how she doesn’t look angry at his outburst. He’s still not quite done yet.

“He wanted to leave.” The pain in his voice confuses him, it hasn’t hurt in almost sixteen years. “He did leave and we did bloody fine without him. We don’t need him. We never did.”

Fitz thinks of his mum, finally singing around the kitchen again after so many months of quiet. They were fine on their own.

May’s face is back to normal, but there might be some softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. She nods her respect for his decision.

The emotional outburst has taken a toll on him and, unsure of how he can now leave this conversation, he stands there, fists balled up, chest heaving, eyes suspiciously wet. He looks back down at his shoes, unable to look at May, embarrassed beyond belief.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “You did fine, Agent Fitz.”

He looks up, an apology on his tongue but May is gone and he is alone in the room. Her touch still lingers on his shoulder and he is comforted by how very much it felt like his mum’s.

-x-

Mack is the next.

He never tells him, partly because the words won’t quite make the journey from his brain to his tongue. He would never know what to say, anyway. His thoughts are all over the place these days.

Still, there’s one night when he’s dozed off in the common room, unable to go to his room for her ghost is there, that Fitz jumps awake with his heart in his throat. His eyes wildly search around the room, yearning for something to comfort him. In the end they settle on Mack, who sits opposite him, just watching with a concerned look.

He likes Mack. He doesn’t want to scare him off by making him think he’s more damaged than he clearly already is. It takes a moment to gather his thoughts but as soon as they come together he tries to explain.

“I- I was just…” he swallows, can already feel himself getting frustrated. “It wasn’t – not ‘cause of _that_ , I-”

Fitz founders, feeling himself begin to heat up. The words are in his brain, the attempt of an explanation r _ight there_ but his tongue just won’t move right and God he hates it so much he wants to throw something but the remote his all the way over the other side of the room and it would look a bit embarrassing throwing a pillow.

“It’s cool,” Mack says, standing up and stretching out. “We all got secrets, Turbo. You don’t need to share ‘em with me.”

He goes to the door, smiling softly back over his shoulder on his way out. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Fitz manages, settling back into the cushions.

What Mack gave him wasn’t much, but it was enough.  He turns and twists, getting comfortable and his father doesn’t dare to invade his dreams again for a while after that.

-x-

The Framework really, for lack of a better word, messes him up.

All he sees, every time he blinks, is someone he killed or tortured or was a downright bastard to. All he sees is this other life, these choices made by _him_ only a him that had his father.

Fitz had been getting so good at burying it. The nightmares hadn’t happened in a while. Things felt like they were finally, finally, on the up.

Then Radcliffe came along. Fitz will admit that, at moments, he could have seen him as a father figure. Aside from the obvious similarities in patriotic allegiances, they had this connection, bond that, yes, was almost paternal. Radcliffe was a bit of a madman, a bit of a weasel, but in the beginning Fitz genuinely believed he wanted to help people and make the world a better place with his inventions and that was all Fitz had been trying to do for such a long time.

His betrayal hurt, more than it ought to, but it was alright. There was a family unit behind him now. There was an entire support structure there. It hurt and it stung and by God why couldn’t he just have _one thing_ but he could live from it. He wasn’t really that surprised when it turned out that Radcliffe had known his father all along. Of course he bloody had.

But then _it_ happened. It’s like looking in a fun house mirror only there’s no fun, only horror, only a sick feeling in his gut because how _easily_ he could have been _that_ man. The Doctor. Leopold Fitz. The proud son of Alistair Fitz. Even thinking of him makes him want to vomit. Because it wasn’t like looking at another life, it wasn’t an alternate reality. He _was_ him. He remembers every feeling, every choice, everything because it was _real._

There’s no way to come back from this one. It’s too late to save him. He’s lived his worst nightmare and it hasn’t killed him but it hasn’t made him stronger. Everybody should leave, move on without him. He can’t be trusted around people anymore. Not when he can turn so easily.

It’s Elena, in the end, who gives him a reason, if not to step back from the cliff, then at least not jump off of it.

He’s sitting, head in his hands, lump in his throat, when she approaches. She has Mack back and he is ever so glad for her. Maybe they will at least get the happy ending he once thought was written for him.

“Hey,” she greets him, softly.

Fitz doesn’t look up, can’t. Already there are hot tears forming in his eyes.

Luckily she isn’t one for beating around the bush. “Look, I wasn’t in there so I don’t know what happened exactly but I’m not stupid. I can guess.”

He doubts she could even guess the half of it but he doesn’t interrupt her.

“I didn’t know who you were in there. It doesn’t matter. I only know who you are out here.”

 _A failure._ He waits, with sucked in breath, for her to say it, for the condemnation to roll off her tongue.

“You are a good man, Fitz. A little tetchy, but a good man.”

He feels her step closer.

 “We are all in this together. Whatever happens next, we do together.”

When she leaves he lets himself sob, finally. Lets himself be unburdened for even just a little while.

It doesn’t fix everything, but her words are a balm to his tired heart and maybe, just maybe there’s an end in sight to this.

He takes a step back from the edge.

-x-

Perhaps one of the most heart-breaking things of coming home from Space is learning of Coulson’s illness all over again.

There’s a turbulent of emotions, some happy, some sad, some horror, and it’s all so much that a headache begins to build up behind his eyes and he asks for  a quiet moment, away from everyone else, to process it all.

May is back (but of course he never even knew she left) and she hands it to him with an uncharacteristically soft smile that brings tears to his eyes.

“He wanted you to have this,” she tells him in a tone that leaves him, among other things, wondering what might have happened between the two of him when he was here but wasn’t.

It’s an envelope. Normal. White. With _Agent Fitz_ written on the front in Coulson’s writing. Ordinarily he would delay in opening it, but if anything this second life has taught him that waiting is all fine and well but sometimes time runs out and there’s nothing you can do.

Sighing and rubbing the back of his neck, he quickly tears it open before changing his mind. Unfolds the singular sheet of paper. Tiny grains of sand fall out and it smells like the sea.

_Agent Leopold James Fitz,_

_I’m going to keep this short and sweet because, honestly, I think I’ll get emotional when writing it._

_I’m sure by now someone has informed you of my ‘predicament’. I didn’t mind in the beginning. To save all of you I’d do it all again. Besides, I’ve had my second chance and, if you’re reading this, I guess you have yours now, too._

_My advice is to treat it like one always. It sounds corny, I know, but appreciate those little things that make life so precious because this is your second chance, one that you almost didn’t get, and things always seem a little sweeter after that._

_I remember when you and Simmons joined this team and the first thing I thought was ‘what the hell am I doing brining a couple of untrained lab kids on this Bus’? I’ve thought it a lot over these past few years and yeah, what we’ve been through sucks. But we’ve been through it together, always as SHIELD, always united. Once I regretted not having my own family, but realised that, actually, it was right in front of me all along._

_You’re not a bad guy, Fitz. I want that out there, in here, everywhere. You’re not a bad guy. You’re a good guy, you always have been. The past sucks, but it’s gone, and all we can do is apologise for it and learn from it and grow as we move into the future. There’ll be some stuff you don’t understand just yet, but give it time. It’ll come eventually._

_One of the biggest things that I wish I had more time for is to say goodbye. I probably won’t get that. Everything changes so quickly. I’ll say it to you here, now. This is a better one, anyway. One you can keep._

_I am proud of you, Agent Fitz. You have grown into one of the most capable agents I know. Your brilliance astounds me even now, after I’ve seen all your capable of. Your loyalty, your dedication, your selflessness. You have so many brilliant qualities and watching you come aboard as that scrawny kid and grow into a man before my eyes is something I feel lucky to have witnessed._

_It has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life to work and live alongside you. Son._

_Agent Philip J Coulson._

Fitz sits and reads the letter for a long time, letting the words soothe the hurt of whatever has been broken within him for such a long time. It doesn’t fix everything, it’s not that simple, but, even if just for a few moments, it doesn’t feel so bad anymore.

-x-

Leopold James Fitz’s first father was an arsehole.

He shouted and kicked and broke glasses and bones when things didn’t go is way. He used words like _stupid_ and _thick_ and _you’ll never amount to anything._

Leopold Fitz’s father was one that was in front of him the whole time and he never realised it.

He clapped him on the shoulder and gave him smiles. He used words like _big brain and heart_ and _it’s alright._ Words like _Son._

This is how he knows that it doesn’t matter (however much Jemma might protest) about blood and biology because the person who _made_ you isn’t necessarily the person who _shapes_ you and helps you become someone you always hope you can become.

His father is no longer a ghost in a video or nightmare but a memory of a man. Once upon a time the love of a father was something alien and foreign but now he knows that it’s something different and special and unique completely. The love of a father, unlike any other love he’s felt, and even if it wasn’t for long, he’s lucky to have known it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much for reading! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day!


End file.
